Practice Makes Perfect, Doesn't It?
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: "Isn't this the best way to learn? Through hands-on experience?" .:. John wants to become a doctor. Sherlock tries to help by going to extreme measures. .:. Modern day school AU, boys roughly age 17. Johnlock. pre-slash, then slash. now multi-chaptered!
1. Hands On Experience

**A/N: Prompted by umbrellaless22 on Tumblr, "Johnlock, school AU. Sherlock knows John wants to be a doctor, so he decides to help John get some practice. Like by actually injuring himself."**

* * *

Sherlock scales the terrace, mindful of the winding ivy, out of bloom, that is wrapped around the crosshatched wood. His messenger bag taps at his knee with each upward motion of his legs, and his hands feel numbed at the tips with the chill of the morning, the dew on the grass below turned to frost.

He uses the tab left under John's never-locked window to pry it up, and then slide it fully to the top. He slips in gracefully, his school uniform getting a couple white paint chips on it as he climbs inside. He dusts off his trousers, closes the window behind him, and comes to sit beside John on his bed.

"John. Wake up," he says, shaking his only friend by the shoulder.

John stirs, rolling with a grunt onto his back. He glances at his clock. It's just after five thirty, and about an hour before dawn. He licks his dry lips to wet his mouth (left open in sleep) and snorts as he rubs his nose. "Jesus. Sherlock, school's not until later. My alarm won't even go off until a while yet. What are you doing here?"

"I need your help with some of my biology homework. I forgot about it last night because I put it off. And I am already doing poorly in the class because it slips my mind to turn my work in on time," Sherlock explains with a sigh. "And while I understand the material, it would help me get this done in the necessary amount of time if you would aid me."

John sighs heavily and rubs at his eyes, his face. He sits up, and Sherlock finds with a start that John sleeps in pajama pants, but no shirt. He swallows, tears his eyes away. John is nicely built thanks to the rugby he often partakes in. Sherlock hadn't noticed until now.

"Are you going to help me, or not?" he asks as John gets out of bed and picks up a t-shirt off the floor to put on, the chill leaking in from the window.

"I will if you close that," he says, pointing. "And give me a minute to go use the loo."

Sherlock nods, and John stumbles off in the darkness of the house to use the bathroom next door to his room.

After the window is shut, Sherlock lays out his homework on John's small desk in the corner. He takes the chair and starts scribbling furiously, writing down at least half the answers on the page.

When John enters, he kneels before the desk and takes up a different sheet, referring back to Sherlock's textbook as he fills out the rest, easily forging Sherlock's handwriting after years of being so familiar with it, and having to write in it a few times to save Sherlock's arse, much like now.

They finish in twenty minutes, and then John yawns. He glances at his clock. "No time to go back to sleep," he sighs. He looks at Sherlock, whom is filing away his papers and slotting folders, notebooks, and his textbook back into his bag. "Look, I'm going to have a shower. I suggest you head home."

Sherlock doesn't want to. He wants to stay here with John until they can walk to school together, like the always do. "Can't I stay? It's more efficient. I'm going to walk with you anyhow."

"Yeah, but you can't be seen leaving my room with me! My parents will wonder."

"You parents don't get up for work until you have already left. Why can't I stay?"

John flushes. "Because I come into my room naked to get dressed."

"Get your clothes now and take them into the bathroom with you," Sherlock shrugs. "I'll rest my eyes on your bed while you get ready. Then we can eat a quick breakfast together, and be on our way."

"We aren't normal," John mutters under his breath, thinking he's going unheard by Sherlock, as he collects his uniform, underwear, socks, and shoes and takes a clean towel from the closet in the hall to bring into the bathroom with him.

Sherlock doesn't mind waiting. And they aren't normal; Sherlock knows that. But since when does normal suit either of them?

John is merely seventeen (Sherlock is not yet that age; his birthday is later than John's), but he knows he wants to be a doctor, and specifically a medic in the army. He wants to serve like many members in his family have, and he is fascinated by everything medical about the human body and its functions. And he wants to help people.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is fascinated by everything regarding crime and forensic science. He wants to be a detective, and specifically a consulting detective separate from the rules and regulations of the police. And he wants to solve puzzles.

Their peers are only interested in graduating, drinking, sleeping with each other, and going to university to "find themselves." So no, they are not normal. Their interests in career are completely out of the norm.

And their bond is stronger than usual friends' bonds. They sometimes do things or act a certain way that their peers would ever act toward one another. But John doesn't seem to mind; he seems more amused than irritated by it, most of the time. And Sherlock wouldn't have their relationship any other way.

It would be too boring otherwise.

#

On their way to school, Sherlock notices a few toast crumbs left on John's jacket. He stops him and brushes it off for him.

"Thanks," John says with a slight pucker of his brows. He's smiling soon afterward. "That would've been embarrassing."

"It was annoying me," Sherlock shrugs, continuing to walk forward.

"Here, actually, you have some dandruff on the back of your neck," John replies, looking Sherlock over for any crumbs of his own and finding the white specks on his dark jacket instead. "Probably shaken loose when you were lying on my bed." He brushes it off in turn, once Sherlock freezes in place for him. "There. Now we're both clean."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, "You always have my best interests at heart, John."

"Yeah, well. I know you have mine in mind, too, when you care to stop and realize it." And he grins.

Sherlock gives a small smile in return.

#

"John," Sherlock inquires at lunch as they sit in the sun, soaking up what little heat they can get before it retreats again behind the clouds, "May I sleep over this weekend?"

"I don't see why not," John shrugs as he takes a bite of his sandwich and adjusts the way his gray dress slacks fit atop his thighs, moving the seam inward. "My parents don't care when you sleep over. They find you charming. Can't imagine why," and he smirks as he finishes off his lunch.

Sherlock solely has a bottle of iced green tea for his lunch. He doesn't eat much. It worries John often, and Sherlock selfishly likes to suck up and swim in John's concern like substitute nourishment. No one else cares about him. His brother hardly does, and certainly his own parents don't care what he does, as long as he doesn't get killed. The other teens in their school poke fun at him behind his back, harass him, and ignore him. John is all he has.

He shrugs and sips at his tea. "Me either. Still, it's convenient to know I'm welcomed any time I please."

"_Almost _any time. Coming into my room in the wee hours of the morning was pushing it," John scolds. "I should have kicked you out this morning, told you to sod off. Don't know why I didn't."

"Because I am your friend, and you care about me," Sherlock answers, taking the statement literally.

John smiles at that. "I guess." He drinks the reminder of his water bottle and stands to go recycle it. "Heaven help me."

#

John's house is too cramped for Sherlock to have much more option than the sofa downstairs, the floor beneath the window of John's bedroom, or John's bed.

John always offers his bed. And he usually takes a spot on the floor, or brings his pillow and blanket downstairs to the sofa. But he likes to talk to Sherlock, so he remains on the floor tonight.

But it's chilly, much colder than usual. He shivers where he lies on the carpet, and, unable to sleep well, Sherlock glances over the side, hands braces on the ledge of the mattress, and tilts his head. "John? Do you want to com up to the bed?"

"What, and s-_sleep _with you?" he asks, wrinkling his nose at the idea. His teeth chatter.

Sherlock shrugs. "Yes. What else would I mean? It is such a big deal?"

"Yeah, it is –" John begins, but cuts himself off with a sigh almost immediately. "Never mind. I'm sh-shivering too much to care." He visibly shakes as he stands and picks up his blanket and pillow. Sherlock scoots over in the small bed, and John slips in beside him. Much of him is very cold indeed, and Sherlock feels gooseflesh rise in response to John's arm and leg brushing his. "Huh. Warmer already. You've always radiated more body heat than me."

Sherlock shrugs in response. They both lie and face the ceiling for a while, both of John's hands lax on his abdomen, both of Sherlock's at his sides, both pairs atop the covers. John blinks a few times. He wants to sleep, but he's finding it difficult.

So he talks instead. "After we graduate, I'm going straight to the military for training, and then to med school, when my service can help pay for it. And then, who knows? Maybe they'll ship me to Afghanistan, or Iraq."

"I hope neither. And if you are sent abroad, then you better come back unharmed. I won't chance losing you, you know," Sherlock states very quietly and sternly, his jaw set.

John glances over at him, surprised. "Come on, I can't be in that much danger. I'll only be a medic. I might never make it above private in rank. It will be fine. Plus, how can we know if we'll even be friends that far into the future? I mean, I would love it if we were, but we can't know. We might go our separate ways."

"We will be," Sherlock replies swiftly, seriously. He turns onto his side and faces John, reaching out and grasping his hand, giving it a nearly too-tight squeeze. "And if we separate, we're going to find each other again. I will look for you."

Somehow, it's comforting. John softens his face to an easy smile. "Yeah, okay. I'll keep in contact, and I'll find you, too, every time I'm on leave."

"We can get a flatshare together," Sherlock suggests as he releases John's hand.

John huffs a quiet laugh. "Sure can. I'm the only person who could stand to live with a prat like you."

"I'm not a prat."

John cracks up again, snickering to himself. "What? Yes, you are! You just called a girl out on her weight today, and then told her that her boyfriend was cheating on her."

"He is. I sit behind him in maths. He flirts with the girl across the aisle from him, and sends her sexual texts, implying that they have done or are going to do something together."

John shakes his head, grinning. "You're impossible. No wonder I'm your only friend. You offend everyone else."

Sherlock goes silent. He looks away, shifting over onto his other side.

John's smile falls when he realizes what he's said. He blinks, moves to prop himself up on one elbow. "Sherlock? Hey, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I know it's not easy; I've fought for you against bullies before. I've knocked in boys' teeth for bad-mouthing you in my presence when you weren't around, and you never did anything to provoke any of them. I just meant…" He sighs roughly. "I don't know what I meant. I was just teasing you. I'm sorry," he repeats. He touches Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock acts like he's twenty-nine sometimes, but he's only sixteen. He's a vulnerable, awkward teenager just like all the rest, deep down.

There's a pause, and then, finally, Sherlock leans back a bit to peer over his shoulder at John. "…Why are you my friend, John?"

John frowns. "Because you simply _are_? I don't know. I have other friends, a whole slew of them, but you're my best mate. I've known you for ten years now, pretty much since we started primary school. You're my next-door neighbor and my first friend when I moved in. You've always been incredibly brilliant; you read things about me just by looking at me when you saw me over the wall between our houses. You and Harry don't get along, but she actually doesn't mind you, which is a feat, trust me. My parents like you, and they don't always like my friends. So I don't know, really. You've just always been there, and even through the years as we've changed interests and matured, I still think you're the most genius person I've ever known, and I'm… I'm proud to call you mine – My friend."

John blushes at the slip-up, but Sherlock takes no notice.

Sherlock rolls onto his back and peers up at the blond teen, scanning his face with his eyes. "I want to do something for you."

"Eh?" John says, smiling slightly. "What for? You never do anything for others. It's one of your quirks: you don't like doing things for others so that you don't disappoint, and don't waste your time."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm making an exception. What would you like?"

John shrugs. "I don't know. Nothing. You don't have to, anyway." He looks over Sherlock at the clock on his bedside. "We should sleep. It's after one a.m."

"John," Sherlock murmurs. "Let me help you practice to become a doctor."

"What, like, help me study?" John asks, frowning.

"I have a few methods in mind. May we start tomorrow?" Sherlock wonders.

"Um… No, I'd rather not. Maybe after school, during the week? We could then, I guess. Yeah, that works. Thanks," he adds, nudging Sherlock's arm. "You're the best, Sherlock, you really are. Even if we sometimes get into the worst fights, and you're sometimes an ass, you're actually the best."

Sherlock's smile is bright; a rare sight. John enjoys it as the last thing on his mind before he settles back down and is able to sleep.

#

Sherlock comes over to John's house Tuesday afternoon. When John answers the door, he lets out a small scream. Sherlock is holding up his arms in front of his chest, bent at the elbow and fingers curled loosely in his palms. There is crimson liquid trailing down from four cuts, two on each arm below the wrist, dripping at the point of his elbow and splashing onto the cobblestone path leading to John's door.

"Sherlock! What happened?"

"I wanted to help you become a doctor," Sherlock says effortlessly, and that makes the image of him bleeding out from the arms all the more unsettling. "So I injured myself."

"S-stay there!" John panics. He runs back into his house, finds an old towel, and rushes back. He wraps it around Sherlock's bleeding arms and holds him, guiding him into the kitchen. Thank God the downstairs is mostly wood-floored and tiled, easy to clean.

He runs water, finds his mother's first-aid kit, and goes about tending to Sherlock's wounds, cleaning the cuts, spreading antibiotic ointment with an ear-cleaner over the irritated skin and wrapping gauze around the vertical gashes. They are about five to six centimeters each in length, give or take a centimeter on a cut or two.

"Sherlock, why did you do this to yourself?" John pleads, looking up into Sherlock's downcast eyes as he gently holds his unharmed wrists.

"Isn't this the best way to learn how to give people medical attention: by having hands-on experience?" Sherlock questions aloud, his voice calculating and soft.

John's face contorts into something empathetic and tragic. Sherlock only glances once, but when he sees it, he feels a flood of shame and looks away again, tearing his wrists out of John's grip, rolling down his sleeves over the bandages.

"No… No, Sherlock, that's not – It might seem like a good idea, but hurting yourself? That's – no. It's not a good way to learn. Not like this."

"It's unorthodox to cause it myself, I know, but it works, doesn't it? You treated me well, just now. Like a true doctor," Sherlock defends meekly, but he can hear how his poise is waning. "It shouldn't matter, anyhow. I didn't go deep; only broke platelets, not any veins. It will heal without scarring."

"That's not the point!" John raises his voice, and Sherlock, despite being the taller of the two, shrinks back. "I don't want you bleeding for me! That's not right, Sherlock."

"But I don't mind bleeding for you," Sherlock mutters stubbornly, coldly. "What does it matter? I'll be fine. I knew you could heal me. It's no worse than a cat scratch, and will be less prone to infection, since I used a sharp, clean knife."

"Sherlock…" John tries again, attempting a gentler approach, "I'm touched you wanted to help me, but hurting yourself is not the way to do it. I thought you meant we would study medical textbooks together, go through flashcards. Had I known you meant _this_, I wouldn't have agreed to your help."

Sherlock peers up and smiles. "Look, John, you're even talking like a doctor, now. Good. You can't get angry with your patients if they hurt themselves; you have to speak gently, understandingly. I knew you would."

John gapes. "Was… was that a test?"

"Of course. Being a doctor is not only about treating the physical, but tending to a patient's emotional wounds as well. Which you just did exceptionally with," Sherlock relays assuredly.

"This… this is really messed up," John murmurs.

"It's fine, Dr. Watson," Sherlock answers. "You'll be the best medic the British Army has ever had."

John should think Sherlock has gone mad. But, inexplicably, he knows he's not. This is just another of Sherlock's unusual methods of showing that he cares, and is trying to be of use.

"Yes, I might be. But please, Sherlock, promise me you won't hurt yourself again?" John implores as he takes Sherlock by the shoulders and looks him directly in the eye.

The dark-haired boy can't deny him. He nods. "Yes, yes, all right. I won't."

"Good. Thank you," John sighs with relief.

#

On Friday, Sherlock is held back after school is out due to a fight.

Sherlock's parents are unavailable. John's come instead, Harriet reluctantly in tow.

"Aren't you a bit old to be getting into schoolyard fights, young man?" Mrs. Watson scolds with her hands on her hips.

"He was asking for it," is Sherlock's sole reply.

The parents chat with the headmaster and John takes Sherlock to the infirmary, the nurse gone, but her supplies there. He patches Sherlock, dabbing hydrogen peroxide on the cut formed around his bruising eye socket, and helps clean his busted lip.

"He looks worse. His parents took him to the hospital," Sherlock brags, but shuts up when John sends him a look.

"This better not be because I told you not to hurt yourself, and you still want to give me hands-on practice," John warns as he spreads ointment on Sherlock's purpling skin and the streaks of red on pale skin. It makes his wounds look more intense, and inaptly greasy. But it will help the healing process, and help protect it.

Sherlock sighs. "You're not as stupid as you look. But I should have known; you know my habits, and are above average intelligence."

John throws down a cotton ball and shouts, "So you _did _pick a fight because you wanted to get injured and have me fix you up! Dammit, Sherlock, you can't _do _this!"

"I don't care if I'm hurt if it means you become a good doctor!" Sherlock retorts. "I don't mind! It gives you the best practice, apart from volunteering at the hospital – but even then you aren't permitted to do as much for others as I am giving you opportunity to do – and it's convenient and efficient, having me injured in a controlled environment, nearby to you, always, and within care."

"It sounds logical when you put it like that, but do you realize how it makes me feel, seeing my best friend getting hurt all because he thinks it would help me? How would you feel, Sherlock, if I stole something or smuggled drugs or blackmailed someone just to give you a puzzle to hone your detective skills? –Or, worse yet, what if I killed someone else and then myself to give you a good murder-suicide crime, and a couple bodies to study at your leisure, because I would be nearby, someone you know, and _convenient?_" John throws back.

Sherlock stumbles off of the examination cot and gawks at John with wide eyes and considerably parted lips. "…I would… I would feel ill. I wouldn't be able to –" he swallows. Picturing John white and cold, rigor mortis stiffening his joints, his face contorted in pain of death, his eyes glossy and unseeing; picturing John's young, able body bruised with livor mortis as well, coagulated blood pooled around his body, soaking his bright blond hair; thinking of John capable of cold-blooded murder, of taking away his own life, all for Sherlock's sake… Sherlock's eyes start to water. "I would not like that, no."

"No," John says lowly. "No, I don't think you would." He sighs, his anger receding. "Sherlock, please. I know you're reckless by nature, and your intentions are good, but I don't like wondering what you must think of yourself to hurt yourself so easily, and just for me." He softens and reaches out, gently touching Sherlock's cheek below his injured eye. "And I don't like seeing you looking mangled, either. It ruins your handsome face."

Sherlock could smile. He doesn't. "You think I'm handsome, John?"

"Shut up," John replies, turning to hide a slight blush and clean up the mess of medical supplies and bloody cloths. He dumps it in the rubbish bin and when he returns to Sherlock's side, Sherlock looks apologetic and sullen. John offers a tiny smile and drapes his arm over Sherlock's slender shoulders, having to reach up quirt a bit to get there. "Come on. We need to get back to my parents, now, and go home. You're staying over again; no buts."

"I wasn't going to disagree," Sherlock utters clearly, feeling in better spirits, despite the stinging throb on his face.

#

Two months later, they on summer holiday, and having a small fire in the pit on John's patio. Sherlock roasts a sausage on a skewer, turning it over.

"Hey, don't stand so close! And why do you have one of the older, shorter sticks?" John says while his parents and a few others chat and drink together inside, playing cards at the kitchen table. There are some of John's other friends around the fire, and some playing ball in his small yard, using circles drawn in chalk on the stone walls on either side as goals.

"I know what I'm doing," Sherlock reassures. He brings the sausage closer, squishes it, and shakes his head. "A bit longer," he amends.

John sighs. "I worry about your love of fire sometimes, Sherlock."

"At least I am not a pyromaniac going around and committing arson," the taller teen grins wickedly. He chuckles and his sausage wobbles with the vibrations.

"Hey, careful, or it'll –" John warns, but it's too late. Sherlock cuts off mid-laugh as the sausage tips forward, taking him a bit closer with it as it slides off the end, lost to the crackling fire.

And then Sherlock's sleeve catches at the elbow where he rolled it up but didn't keep his cuff buttoned, leaving it susceptible to drooping too low.

"Jesus Christ!" John cries, reaching for his drink beside him and dousing the fire on Sherlock's arm with it.

There is a spot of hair missing on Sherlock's forearm, along with the beginnings of a first- or second-degree burn. Half of the guests stop and look at the commotion. John's mother gets up and instantly is by Sherlock's side as Sherlock stares, eerily silent, at his forearm near his elbow.

Thankfully, it's no more than a few blisters that will heal up nicely, given proper time and care. But that doesn't stop John from treating to them like he would a worse burn, and proceeding to yank Sherlock into his bedroom.

"I can't believe you did that, or that it even happened! What were you thinking? Were you trying to 'accidentally' get burned just so I would play doctor with you again?" John accuses sharply, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"No! John, _no._ I told you I wouldn't do that again, and I haven't! It was a sincere accident, and I was being careless, but not intentionally so! Please, you have to believe me," Sherlock beseeches, twisting his hands together anxiously.

John blows air out his nose in frustration. "Okay. I believe you. I'm just – just a little paranoid after the whole fiasco a couple months ago."

"I've learned my lesson there, John, I honestly have," Sherlock states undoubtedly. "You must trust that. I know not to pt you through that again. Every time I think of it, I think of what you said about giving me a crime, and I picture you dead, and I stop cold."

John feels a pang of guilt for that. He didn't know it would affect Sherlock too much when he said it. But if it works, then he can't feel too bad. It keeps Sherlock from hurting himself on purpose, at least. He sighs again and steps forward to bring Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock goes rigid and doesn't return the embrace. "I do trust it. You just scare the bloody hell out of me sometimes, Sherlock."

Sherlock forces himself to actively blink. Then he brings his arms around John's shoulders and closes his eyes. "I never want to do anything to push you away again. But you must admit, practice makes perfect."

John snorts without humor, pulling out of the hug. "Sherlock," he cautions.

Sherlock frowns. "Not good? Was the joke made too soon?"

"Not good, yeah, just a bit. Definitely too soon," John confirms.

"…Sorry."

"It's okay. You're learning, at least," John adds with a pat to Sherlock's shoulder. "Now let's get back out there before everyone starts talking."

"…What would they talk about?" Sherlock asks, puzzled. He fails to see the implication that could be caused of them simply talking.

"We've been absent from the party _to my bedroom_ for long enough that they might think we're snogging or something," John mumbles, his ears burning.

"Ridiculous. They have all seen you date girls over the years. You would have no interest to do that with me, and they know it," Sherlock replies.

"You'd be surprised," John sighs again.

The rest of the gathering goes off without a hitch. At least, only three people leave because of something Sherlock says to them, and no one else gets wounded.

###


	2. Last Hurrah

**A/N: Decidedly continued. **

**Note: teenage sex in this chapter!**

* * *

"John, do you remember when we would feed flies to the spiders, catch frogs, and dissect the birds and rodents Mycroft's cat killed during the summers of our childhood?" Sherlock comments offhandedly as he casts a line.

It's one lazy summer afternoon, humid from recent rains, sun uncannily hot above them as it fades in and out of clouds. It's their last summer before their final year of school. The next summer will be full of university prep and John heading for the army. They will have one last hurrah next summer, and then they won't see each other for a while. This summer is meant to be the time they can freely spend with one another.

John reels in his bait and re-casts. John's father, some ways down the shore of the pond, struggles to bring in a fish. It gets away, and he curses aloud as he reels in an empty hook. John laughs to himself. Turning back to his friend (whom seems bored by the prospect of fishing, but came along anyhow because John asked him to), he responds idly, "Yeah, I remember. What made you think of it? Hearing the frogs in the distance right now, or…?"

Sherlock shrugs. He rants, "That, paired with the realization that we are no longer children. We will be adults in a year's time. All those afternoons I strung you along with me, exploring beyond the boundaries your parents allowed, getting you into trouble, looking for puzzles that weren't there, making ones up to solve, playing imaginary games of war. It was all good fun, and sometimes, I miss the simplicity and innocence of it. I hate the cliché, but it isn't the same after puberty and the female portion of our race cloud things up, and the school workload increases by at least sixty-two percent, and our peers become unpredictably either more judgmental and cruel or more aloof and sidetracked, gathering into tighter-knit groups and dismissing everything remotely idealistic from their minds leftover from childhood."

"…Yeah, okay, I see your point there. But hey, how are girls and puberty an issue for you? You've never been with one. I don't even think you've showed any _interest _in one, even. You seem – I don't know – _asexual_? You just don't see anyone sexually, you just sort of… stick to your work and yourself, I guess," John puzzles out.

Sherlock shakes his head, mop of hair whipping about with a life almost its own, his curls are so frayed in the humidity. "No, no. Despite how I seem, I am not devoid of sexual interest, John. I have plenty of it; I simply choose not to act on it, because I have a feeling it wouldn't be well reciprocated, all considering. And girls are an issue because _you _like them. They distract you from me. I don't like it." he preoccupies himself with casting his line out again, reeling to adjust it, his eyes fixed on the stillness of the water.

In the distance, John can hear his father let out a gleeful exclamation. "We can make turtle soup tonight!" Good thing they went through the proper legal business for that, John thinks faintly.

John reels in his line and clips the fishing hook onto one of the rings that stabilize the line. He sets his pole aside and gives Sherlock a scrutinizing stare. "…You never seemed jealous of my girlfriends before."

"I hid it. I am only telling you now because we have but one year left together before we separate for a while, and I was hoping I might convince you to date a little less, or not at all, for our final year," Sherlock relays hastily, almost clumsily reeling in his line and casting again (he shouldn't do that so much. He needs to be patient. But then, John doesn't think Sherlock means to catch anything, anyhow. He's already cut open about every type of fish this pond has between the various times they have fished here and gone home to filet the fish for dinner).

John's brows come together and he brings up a hand to rub over his chin and touch his lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. Is that so."

"Yes. It's been increasingly worse since they have gotten frisky enough to allow you to feel them up and you allow them to touch you below the belt," Sherlock mutters lowly and heatedly, his face twisted in a scowl. "I don't understand it."

John has never talked about sexual things with Sherlock before. He didn't even know these sorts of things crossed Sherlock's mind in the least. He's intrigued. He prods, "Don't understand what? That I have a libido and like to indulge it, or don't understand why those girls are willing to do things with me?"

"You're still young, you have time to do it later! And no, I understand perfectly well why they would _want to_: they are also fueled by their hormones, you are a gently attractive young man with an honest face they feel they can trust and not be misused by, and you have not an overly muscled physique, but enough of one from playing rugby that they desire to feel it. It's not mystery there. What _bothers me, _what I _don't understand, _is why you let them when you hardly care about them and break up with them within a couple weeks' time when there are other people you could spend your time and sexual curiosity with, people whom you wouldn't get bored of and would be able to continue to be with later, when the time for such things is more _appropriate_," Sherlock grinds out, and he gives up on fishing entirely by reeling in his line until the hook hits the first loop on the rod. He drops his pole and tussles his hair before sitting down in the foldable chair they brought along for him. "And now I've said too much."

John studies his best friend for a lasting moment. Then he sits down on a nearby rock and rests his elbows on his spread knees. It takes his mind a moment to catch up to Sherlock's rapidly spoken words, but once it cycles through them, understanding dawns on him, and he straights up. "Holy _shit_, you… you have feelings for me. Of the lustful sort, anyway. _Shitty buggerfuck."_

"John, your sailor's tongue is vile. Please stop."

"You're not even _denying _it!"

"…Actually, I am. That was not what I was saying at all. You are jumping to conclusions."

"No, I'm not! Who else do I know well enough, who else am I close enough to, whom I 'wouldn't get bored of' and will still keep in contact with when I'm older? Who else besides you, Sherlock? If there's someone, please, enlighten me. Maybe then I'll go 'spend my time and sexual curiosity' with them instead," John counters, and Sherlock nearly cringes. He certainly looks away from the water and at the ground of to his right, away from John. He goes on, "_Jesus, _why didn't I get this a bit earlier? You don't fancy girls, that much is true, and you said your advances wouldn't be 'well reciprocated, all considering.' Well that's 'cause not many guys in our grade are gay, and you don't even like anybody apart from me. _Jesus Christ._"

"I'm not religious, but your parents must frown upon your taking the Lord's name in vain so often," Sherlock comments dismissively, partially turning toward John again, but not looking him in the eyes.

"Is that what brought all this on?" John continues as though Sherlock hadn't spoken. "You here with me in this little sanctuary, my dad too far away to hear us, and you going over memories of us as children, and then as early teenagers, and us right now, and our last hurrah, and thinking maybe of dreams you've had about me, or the jealousy you felt before – because, in retrospect, you never much liked any of my girlfriends, did you? You could never keep their names separate, and you always saved the worse deductions for them – and then coming to some sort of conclusion to say something to me, here and now?"

Sherlock looks sheepish and, for once, his pale cheeks are pink (from only a blush, because he always wears sunscreen when he goes out). He looks John in the eyes for the briefest second. "I didn't mean for it to come out. You know how my brain works faster than my mouth, and I have no filter unless you stop me from talking."

"So you really aren't denying it, then," John clarifies.

"Don't hate me, John. I couldn't live with myself if you hated me. I told you didn't want to do anything more to push you away. You can forget this whole thing. I would prefer it if you did. I won't bring it up again. I'll try to let is pass, these feelings. They must be my hormones on the fritz, easily managed. Please," Sherlock tries to compromise. And it's working; he _never _says please unless it's to John's parents or out of sarcasm to others.

"It's impossible to forget something like this, Sherlock," John says, but not unkindly. His eyes are soft. Sherlock feels pained to look at them, utterly mortified, because John is such a good person and friend to take this in stride as he is. His voice lowers, "But who said I was going to hate you for what you feel, or that I would reject you? I certainly didn't say any of that."

Sherlock's body goes tense and his eyes light up. "No?"

"Nope," John smiles, "Not a word or tone that resembled, 'Sherlock, I am completely opposed to being with you as more than a friend.'"

"_Oh_," Sherlock whispers, a revelation blooming in his brain, as bright as a firework. John let him stay as he got ready for school, John shared a bed with him, John let him grip his hand, John held his wrists, John touched his face, John called him handsome, John blushed, John said he was glad Sherlock was _his, _then correcting himself to say that Sherlock was _his friend_; and all done or said _recently._ Not a mistake or casualness from childhood. It's _recent, _post-puberty, and _oh. _"So, then, you wouldn't combat a move, on my part, to kiss you once we are back at your house from this fishing trip?"

"I wouldn't so much as put up a hand to stop you, no," John replies. He feels an excited hum of electricity underneath his skin, entirely diverse to the buzz of feeling of horny anticipation he felt with his girlfriends. This feels stronger, more intimate.

He should have mixed feelings, he shouldn't want it so badly because he _has _known Sherlock forever, and he thinks that would mean he should have no interest, unable to see Sherlock in this kind of light, the one that shines to narrow his vision to solely the sexual, but he doesn't. He feels no mixed feelings whatsoever. He's had his own fair share of ideas regarding Sherlock, but he always thought it would be awkward and wouldn't fit into their relationship, and that Sherlock wouldn't want it at all.

John likes being proved wrong, especially by Sherlock Holmes.

#

After dinner, John's parents go out for drinks to their favorite pub. Harriet waves goodbye and sneaks out to her girlfriend's house, blowing John a kiss on her way, saying, "If Mum and Dad call before I'm back, call me. And if I return drunk, cover for me."

John sighs but nods, watching her go, leaving the two teenage boys in her wake, standing gawkily between the kitchen and the living room. Harry shuts the front door behind her, locks it with her house key. They can hear her footsteps on the sidewalk passing before the house, and then she's out of range.

Then the house falls quiet. Feels empty.

Sherlock turns to John with twitching fingers and dilated pupils. He licks his bowed lips, and John's eyes track the movement involuntarily. "May we… go up to your room?"

John's knees give out for a second, knocking together. He swallows. "Yeah… let's."

Somehow, they can't get up the short set of stairs fast enough. They bump into one another a few times as they clamber up, hands smacking the banister and wall, it's all they can do not to burst into insanely high-pitched, nervous giggles.

Once they are in John's bedroom, they close the door and start stripping down to their undergarments. Sherlock feels pathetically insecure, although he doesn't show it. He feels too lanky and tall and pale compared to John, who always has a touch of golden pigment to his skin, is always pinker in the face and ears than Sherlock, and who does have a body made to get down in the dirt and run across it, playing ball and tackling bodies.

But John doesn't seem to care. He comes up to Sherlock where he stands halfway between the doorway and the bed, his back turned to the only mirror in the room, one arm rubbing the other as if to get warm, but actually trying to hide his erect nipples and ribbed chest. John's ribs don't show as much, and neither does his spine. He doesn't have beauty marks scattered all across his skin. And yet he's looking at Sherlock like he's a work of art. It makes Sherlock's insides squirm.

"I've dreamt of this so many times that it doesn't feel real," Sherlock blurts out, stating a fact, but it sounds alien in the silence as John's parts Sherlock's hand from his arm and runs his warm hands down Sherlock's sides, then up his navel, ghosting the flesh, his palms smoothing over Sherlock's chest, making him shiver.

"It's okay," John reassures, and he leans forward to press his lips to Sherlock's sternum. They have a few more years of growing left in them, but as they stand right now, John's mouth hardly needs to angle downward to touch to Sherlock's breastbone. And Sherlock hardly needs to move his head at all to touch his lips to John's forehead. He kisses there now when John's lips leave his skin, and John's forehead feels a little oily and feverish. He's anxious. Sherlock is, too.

"I had to hide my arousal from you when we shared a bed a few months ago. I was terrified you would notice, but you were asleep by the time it happened, thankfully," Sherlock continues to run his mouth, and he wishes he could stop. But he can't. His brain is on autopilot, listing off statements of blunt truth without him able to help it.

John smiles as his hands seek Sherlock's sides again, thumbing his waistline and gripping his hips, his lips lax and running warmly over Sherlock's collarbones, and Sherlock sucks in air, his nipples tingling whenever the skin of John's chest brushes his ribs or stomach. "Honestly, I don't know what I would have done," he murmurs against Sherlock's skin, lifting his heels off the carpet to bring his mouth to Sherlock's long neck. "Or what I would have thought. At that point, you never said anything, and I hadn't picked up on anything, not even the jealousy you had of my girlfriends. And once, when I did notice you being jealous, I thought it was because you liked her, not me."

"Oh, John. _No_," Sherlock huffs a laugh as he brings up a hand to thread through the back of the blond teen's hair. "Considering how you behaved at the time, I know which girl you mean. And she is hardly my type. Female, for one reason. Model-thin brunette with brown eyes, for another. No, I like men. And blonds. And stockier but fit men, separate from my build. In short, _you._"

John smiles against Sherlock's skin and plants kisses leading up to Sherlock's jaw. He stretches to the balls of his feet to get enough lift to kiss Sherlock on the mouth, Sherlock's other hand curling almost possessively around John's waist as he lifts him a bit more and tilts his head down to make the kiss comfortable and deep. John breathes into Sherlock's mouth and tires to kiss him like he would a girl, but Sherlock quickly corrects him with some assertion, reminding John that he is kissing a boy, and it's much different.

A moan slips out before John knows he's going to make one, and Sherlock breaks the kiss with a satisfied smirk he quickly wipes from his mouth. "How did I fail to notice that you would welcome my desires?"

"You can be really oblivious when you think it's doomed to be impossible," John chuckles airily as his hands continue to scan Sherlock's back and hips, unable to get enough of feeling his skin. "So I was able to hide it from you. But I also thought it shouldn't, you know, because of what everyone would think. Some of the blokes in rugby already tease me that all my girlfriends are beards and that you're my boyfriend, and I was always ashamed of it, to be honest, because there was some truth to it, at least on my part. You're… very important to me," John mumbles into Sherlock's skin ad he moves down to suckle a pert bud into his mouth, making Sherlock arch forward, nails dully raking down John's back.

"I see. That explains it," Sherlock breathes. He scoops up John's chin and kisses him with zeal. He smoothes over the fingernail marks he's left on John's back with his fingertips, the skin feeling icy and melting into a slow, sensual burn that leaves John's wanting with renewed hunger.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John says between devouring kisses that make his thin lips swell, "I can't wait anymore. I can't stop. I just want –"

"I know. Me, too," Sherlock murmurs as he walks John's backward to the bed. John sits, and Sherlock straddles him, and the timid touches and tongue-tied confessions cease. Sherlock presses John to lie back, and he pins his arms to the mattress. He kisses John with all tongue and teeth, and it might be a little messy, but John can't take notice of it as he groans in spurts into Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock's grinds down onto him, the raw, fiery rub of cloth on cloth maddening.

"Wait. Wait. I need –" John gasps, Sherlock still licking away at John's upper lip and trying to suck his bottom lip into his mouth, his hips slowing, but not stopping. John pushes up and brings up his legs and aligns himself on the bed properly, dragging Sherlock with him. He strips off his underwear and Sherlock lifts his hips and John removes the taller boy's as well. And then John is reaching over, pulling a small bottle of lotion and a packet of tissues (used for his wanks, admittedly) from the bedside table. He lathers his prick and Sherlock does his own, and John lays the tissues beside them, ready for use.

Then John leans down again, kissing Sherlock as if he has all the time in the world. It's so achingly leisure and passionate that it drains all the air from Sherlock's lungs and reduces his accelerated heartbeat. God, he could become acclimated to kisses like that.

It's meant to relax him, Sherlock realizes, because John is reaching down and taking both their lengths into his hand as best he can, stroking up and down, rubbing the pair together. Sherlock lifts his hips into John's grip and reaches down as they kiss to wrap his longer fingers on the opposite side, aiding John in bringing them together close enough that their heads slick over one another where they peek out of their foreskins.

John breaks the kiss to pant heavily and whisper, eyes closed and his forehead pressing to Sherlock's, "God, that's good. Oh my God. _Sherlock._"

Their balls brush each time John pushes his pelvis forward a bit on the upstroke. Sherlock closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling, although watching John is more pleasant, but it makes him go cross-eyed. He reclines his head back, chin toward the ceiling, and John pauses to readjust his legs to spread wider as he lowers himself closer and brings more contact between their bodies. His lips press half-practiced kisses to the hollow of Sherlock's throat as he opens his eyes and looks up, his hand falling away like Sherlock's.

They are simply sliding now, a slow dance of one body atop the other, members seeking friction and riding toward climax. Sherlock leaves his hands carelessly above his head and enjoys it, shallowly pressing up into John's body. It's amazing, the feeling of another person giving him attention like this, the one person he would ever want to give him this attention. He sighs contentedly and starts to wonder what John tastes like, aside from his mouth, which Sherlock can still taste if he licks around his gums and inner cheeks.

"Fuck, I'm close," John utters with a raspy quality to his voice Sherlock has never heard before, and finds that he likes intensely much. He moans, hoping to hear John says something else, and is gratified when John does. "Shit, Sherlock, you feel so good. Women don't get hard, aren't firm. They're supple and soft and – _shit,_ I never want that again. I just want this. _Always_ this. _Fuck_."

Sherlock thrusts harder up against John and groans lowly. He likes the idea of that. He likes the thought of John being his, wanting him more than he could ever want some female, and it spikes heat in his groin, puts him on edge.

"John. John, I'm almost there. _John_," he begs, almost frantic in his hip movements, his hands coming up and gripping John's shoulders and sticking and catching here and there as he feels down the straining muscles of John's back, bringing John's hips closer, grabbing the tight cheeks of his arse and fucking the slickness he feels between them of lotion and pre-ejaculate.

"I'm going to get you there, mate, I _am_," John whispers, and he seems to fall away from Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock whimpers at the loss; how could John promise that and then move away?

He thinks that, bit just as the thought passes, he feels John's nose bump against his rocking hipbone, and his eyes fly open and he peers down, one elbow propping him up. He blinks, spreads his legs at John's commanding touch. Then Sherlock's mouth hangs open as John's kisses the middle of his shaft over his foreskin before lifting his head to wrap his lips around the tip of Sherlock's prick.

"_John, _oh my _God,_" Sherlock barely gets out before he smacks a hand to his mouth, biting down on his finger as John sucks Sherlock's length into his mouth as much as he can without gagging. His tongue works like it would, no doubt, on ice cream or another orally fixated treat, and Sherlock feels his orgasm knock the breath out of him with how sudden it is.

John makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat and pops off with wet sound the second he tastes the first rush of fluid. He grips the base and works Sherlock's erection as he rides out his climax, and scrambles with the other hand for a tissue.

Sherlock feels the sweat cooling on his skin first before he realizes John is hovering over him. As Sherlock peeks open his eyes from the post-orgasmic bliss, he finds John smiling faintly. There is a drop of Sherlock's come on his lip, and without thinking, Sherlock flutters open his eyes fully and leans up to lick it off. He feels John's desire twitch against his stomach at that.

"Your turn. What do you want?" Sherlock utters quietly.

"Just your hand. Just – just _that,_ yeah," he moans as Sherlock immediately reaches between them and guides John's up more to straddle his waist as he pumps John with one hand, the other gripping below his rear, at the back of his thigh. "Please. Put your fingers in me. I need that to – to…"

Sherlock understands. He releases John's thigh and feels around for the discarded lotion bottle. Letting go of John's prick, he slicks up his hand, especially the fingers of his left, and goes back to thumbing the slit and working the shaft with his right as he tentatively reaches behind John where he's perched on all fours above Sherlock and rubs around John's hole. John makes a humming noise, and Sherlock feels the ring of muscle flutter and open. He slips his finger inside, the damp heat encasing his first knuckle, then his second, and he almost gets hard again just _feeling _that.

John rocks back onto Sherlock's hand and forward into his other hand, and he gazes down at Sherlock with a wanting expression that makes Sherlock's heart race. Then John closes his eyes and breathes, "Another," and Sherlock obliges with a second finger added to the firth, delicately thrusting in and out of John's entrance, fingering the insides gently, thumb occasionally twisting down to rub John's taint. "Oh, God," he sighs.

"Does that feel good? I have never tried it on myself," Sherlock questions in a soft, awed voice.

"Yeah, it does. Especially if you go a little deeper and press down, then you'll reach my –my _OH, fuck_!" John shouts as Sherlock follows his instruction and locates John's prostrate gland. He rubs over it barely twice before John is coming over their stomachs and spilling onto Sherlock's hand, the stimulation enough to drag out his orgasm longer than average and cause more than Sherlock would have guessed to ejaculate.

Fascinated, Sherlock teases John's length even as it starts to go soft, his fingers wriggling in John's arse, and John starts to whimper and sob.

"Pl-please, Sherlock, s-stop, I-I can't…" and he sounds much more tired than Sherlock feels. "O-oh, God, keep that up and I'll be at this again too soon, and it'll make me sore," John begs, trying with wobbling hands to disengage Sherlock from him. He collapses beside his friend and attempts to control his breathing. "That was the best thing I've ever done with someone."

Sherlock is a little amazing, studying his hands for a moment before sitting up and holding his own ankles as he peers down at John. He quirks a brow. "Was it? Because I didn't know what I was doing. I just listened to your guidance and proceeded cautiously, and treated your penis the way I do mine when I touch myself."

"Yeah? Well, it worked wonders," John says after a particularly deep breath. His heart is going back to normal, and he's able to focus his gaze, now. He smiles and leans up to brush back Sherlock's fringe, mindful of the small pimples at his hairline, and press a kiss to his brow. "You really are the best."

Then, sadly, John looks at the clock behind Sherlock and nearly has a heart attack. He jerks back as if stung by a wasp, and exclaims, "Shit! Harry or my parents will be home in, like, ten minutes! We need to get cleaned up and air out my room before they figure out what we did!"

Sherlock glances first at the come on his stomach, then at John's state of disarray, next at their clothes on the floor, and then, finally, at the clock. He calculates what they need to do and how to do it efficiently, all within a matter of seconds. "Leave it to me to rid the scent of sex and clean myself up. Worry about only yourself, and we will have enough time to be downstairs with the telly on without a hint of suspicion before any of them walk in through the door."

"Seriously?" John inquires with both eyebrows raised.

"Yes. I have it worked out to the second, but it will only work if we get moving _right now_."

The blond could kiss him again, he really could. "…You're incredible, Sherlock," John grins as he reaches for a tissue and goes about cleaning himself up.

Sure enough, in nine minutes flat, they have wiped the cooling sweat from their skins with a clean, wet cloth, have made John's room smell as it normally does, and had time to spare to turn on the telly, settle down, and appear as though they have been watching it the entire time, half-drunk glasses of water on the coffee table before them.

#

When Sherlock returns home, no matter how well he can fool John's parents, there is no hiding from the observations of his older brother, Mycroft.

"You're grinning, Sherlock; actually _grinning, _as though you have an inner light, or, perhaps, _oxytocin _flowing through you. Am I correct?" Mycroft smirks devilishly, knowingly, as soon as Sherlock ascends the stairs and is blocked on his way to his room by his older brother's bulk. Mycroft is on his last year of university. He will graduate when Sherlock does, although from separate milestones in schooling.

"And what are you implying, _brother-mine_?" he snarls in riposte, using the title like he would a curse word. They have long since stopped getting along. Sherlock gave up on adoring Mycroft the day he turned thirteen and opened his eyes to what utter bollocks the older Holmes brother spews on a daily basis. "Because isn't correct."

"No? Then why do you reek of guilt and sex? – Or, at least, reek of borrowed hygiene products, which implies you needed another scent to cover up in the first place," Mycroft retorts, still refusing to let Sherlock pass, no matter how he bobs and weaves.

Finally, Sherlock shoves his way past his older brother and storms toward his bedroom. He slams the door – it's easy to outrun Mycroft since he's gained weight stopped bothering to keep up his cardio – and settles down against it, in case Mycroft picks the lock and tries to open it anyhow.

He can hear through the door, "You were only at John's house, unless you lied and went elsewhere, but I doubt it. You wouldn't go anywhere else, and you were out fishing with his father today. So tell me, Sherlock, just because it is my business to know if I can trust who my brother gave his virginity to –"

"It _isn't _your business!" Sherlock roars, standing and shouting at the wood. "Bugger off, Mycroft! Whether or not I slept with John doesn't matter! It's my life, and I will do with it as I please; I don't need your _permission._"

"And if it were in my hands, I wouldn't have given it. Don't think for a second I condone this, or that Mummy and Father would condone it, either, if I so chose to inform them of your _little misdeeds,"_ Mycroft hisses through the crack in the door. "And even if I don't inform them, you best not continue them, or I might take drastic measures."

Burning hot rage flares up in Sherlock, mixed with the sickening weight of guilt like a coal in the pit of the fire. He trembles with the effort not to wrench open the door and use those boxing lessons his father had him take to change Mycroft's face different colors.

"Leave before I do something irrational," Sherlock growls.

"Fine. I'm going. But if by the time this summer is over, Sherlock, and you haven't heeded my warning in nipping this in the bud, I might see to it that you go to a boarding school a little too far out of biking range for John to ride, and a little too costly for him to travel by tube, taxi, or train," Mycroft threatens before walking away.

Sherlock's trembles of rage die down to goosebumps of fear as he sinks to the floor and puts his face in his hands, his knees bunched up to his chest.

Why is Mycroft so against this? Is it because Sherlock is barely seventeen, and still in school, still living at home? Is it because he has had sex with, and wants to only have sex with, another male? What is the problem? John is not a bad person; in a lot of ways, he's a far better person than anything Sherlock could hope to be; John is considerate, John is brave, John is gorgeous and wonderful and – And how can Sherlock give that up, now that it is his to have?

The aspiring detective thinks this may be a dilemma he can't work out on his own.

Keeping his light on and blasting music on his stereo, Sherlock takes out his mobile phone and texts John. _Need to come over to speak to you in person. Can't do it over Skype where someone in my house might overhear. –SH_

The answer comes almost immediately. _Yeah, sure. Everyone's asleep now, I think. Come on over, but use my window. -JW_

#

Sherlock takes a deep breath when he sees John, window open, peering down at him standing in the patch of grass below the blooming terrace. He tries not to think about the way John watches him climb, how John's eyes are peering down at him affectionately, and how Sherlock is going up to the room he has so many times, had just made lo– no, not that, but certainly had a sexual experience in – all with the intention to break the blond boy's heart.

At the window, Sherlock looks up and finds John's face _right there, _smiling warmly. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock before Sherlock has more than a hand on the window frame.

"I keep thinking about you, about our evening together. I can't get it out of my head. When I got your text, I got hard thinking about you coming over and me kissing you like that and us doing it all over again, trying to keep quiet so no one heard. Am I foolish, or what?" John chuckles meekly, not liking the severe expression on Sherlock's face as Sherlock enters, John lending his hand to keep Sherlock's balanced. But Sherlock drops it as soon as he's able to stand to full height, and that is concerning, because John had hoped Sherlock would hold it, maybe lace their fingers together.

Sherlock steels himself, schooling his face and setting his jaw tight and clenching his hands into fists. He has to make this sound convincing, or else they won't be able to go to school together for their final year, and Sherlock refuses to have that happen. "John. It is foolish. This whole thing was foolish. We shouldn't have done it."

John's face falls. "…What? But you said –"

"I am aware of what I said. I was acting on impulse without thinking. This was very unwise. We can't do it again. We have to return to the way we were, or better still, more apart than before. It is the only thing I will accept," Sherlock tells John strictly, his tone as arctic and unyielding as a block of ice.

John feels something cold slither amongst his insides, racking his body with frigid doubt. "So… what, we just pretend we never connected like that? – Sherlock, I can't do that. I'm not you. I can't delete things from my memory bank. I can't just shove down what I harbor for you and carry on like nothing happened –"

"You have to," Sherlock retorts harshly. For both their sakes, he has to.

It hurts Sherlock more than he can say, but is has to be this way, or Mycroft will act, because Mycroft, if anything can be said about him, is always good on his word. Every action has meaning; every word he utters has meaning. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft has a wonderful filter between head and mouth, and he knows how to wield it. He's perfected it. And that's why Sherlock is so terrified, because if he has John, then he will lose him. But if he ends this, pushes away, then he can keep him.

It's all so reverse and _appalling._ Sherlock wishes there were another way to get around it, but with Mycroft, there isn't. Sherlock isn't good enough to trick Mycroft yet. He will be, one day, he's sure of it; but not yet. Not now.

"Goodbye, John." And he turns for the window again.

"You bastard," is the last thing Sherlock hears before the window is slammed shut and his feet touch ground.

Sherlock turns the corner of the house where there are no windows and falls against the wall. Hurting John hurts him more than anything else. Worse than when he hurt himself to help John, worse than being bullied. The look on John's face…

Tears nip at Sherlock's eyes, but he presses the heels of his palms to his sockets until they fade, dampness left on his hands.

Then he stands and walks away, going back home and scaling the tree in his yard until he's in his own room again, alone.

###


	3. Solutions May Vary

"I have a right to know why."

Mycroft sighs, tired of having this conversation. "I'm afraid you don't, little brother."

"How can I not? I'm involved! It's my friend, my choice, my life. There can't possibly be a reason why I can't know what this decision is founded on," Sherlock argues and protests for much the remainder of the summer.

Most of the time, it goes unheeded. Mycroft brushes it off, waves Sherlock away, says he has someplace to go, something to do; or, why doesn't Sherlock go do this or that, and not bother him while he's busy?

It frustrates Sherlock more than anything ever has. Even more than when a boy from a neighboring school was murdered when Sherlock was fifteen, and the police refused to hear him out about the suspicious lack of the boy's trainers. Yes, this frustrates him even more than the would-be Carl Powers case. It's become that extreme.

Finally, today, two days preceding Sherlock's first day of the semester, he enforces his side of things far enough to reach the true reason behind Mycroft's forbiddance.

"Tell me why, Mycroft, because I have worked through every logical reason, and none of them seem quite right. It's the 2000s; England is caring less and less whether or not a man is a gay man or not."

Mycroft says nothing. He knows he has to let Sherlock's rant run its course, because if he doesn't, Sherlock will continually interrupt him anyhow.

Sherlock carries on, "And as far as I have been able to tell, you don't care about trivial things like sexual orientation, and while I agree Father would dislike it strongly that I am homosexual, I know Mummy would still love me, and support me, and would be thrilled my intended was John, because she knows John better than Father does, and she approves highly of him. She thinks he's a good influence on me. And while our family is a bit more prestigious than others, and more traditional, we have no religion we practice, they still have you to carry on the family name, and they know that I am not the sort who would settle down with a wife and have children anyhow. So what does it matter, I ask you? Our reputation wouldn't suffer in the least. I am the black sheep no matter what I do. So between country and family and beliefs, how is this wrong?"

"A very well executed speech, Sherlock. You could be a lawyer instead of a detective, if you so chose, considering your logic and form of debate," Mycroft applauds thickly, as if to cushion a coming blow. "But it doesn't change the fact that you had underage sex, which is something no one would approve of, even if your partner is willing and of the same age, and thankfully not older by much more than a few months.

"Now, as far as your partner being male is concerned: I am not a bigot, but Father is. I am sparing you from his wrath with the same threats he would impose, and actually offering a safer alternative than he would. Also, Mummy wouldn't mind, it's true, and between country and religion is it a non-issue, but, however, in the circumstance of the Holmes family name and Father's side of the family where our name originates, it would be a disgrace, one they would ridicule and shun you for. I am merely acting on our parents' accounts with a compromise that is reasonable."

"Reasonable? Not being allowed to be close to John anymore is 'reasonable'?" Sherlock grinds out, seething with a roller coaster of doubts, anger, and sorrow that make his blood boil and stomach churn. His fingernails dig into his palm as he fists his hands. "If you think Father will be so ruthlessly against my decision, underage or not, then perhaps I should run away. Take some saved money and fend for myself. I could do well on my own. I am legally able to support myself if I found a job and a place to live," he defies boldly, arms folded tightly across his chest, chin raised in challenge.

"How is that an option? You wouldn't last a month on your own, and what job would you do, and how would you pay for school?"

"I could take out loans. Establish credit. Find somewhere cheap, in a boarding house or other flatshare, where the rent is minimal. I would find a blue-collar job first, of course, something with long hours at minimum wage that would give me just what I need for food and rent, and just enough leftover at the end of every month to help pay back some of my loan. And when it comes time for University, my intelligence will help pave the way. There is nothing to fear. I could do it easily," Sherlock retorts. "In fact, I think I will, if it means avoiding Father and being with John. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner." And he smirks.

Mycroft is livid. When he is especially exasperated with Sherlock's antics, he puffs up in the chest and goes pink around the edges of his face, like he is doing now. "It won't come to that. I will have told our parents of your intentions before you could set foot out the door. It would be no hardship to remove you from school and get a tutor, and even a private professor for your college-level studies. You would never leave the house."

"You can't hold me prisoner. I would escape. I always can," Sherlock grins, feeling triumphant and secure again. It feels powerful, and oh so good. Uplifting.

Mycroft's face briefly flickers with a hint of something… Remorse? No, not soft enough. Does he almost seem proud? No, no, it's not that, either. What is it? Is he coming to his senses? Will he let Sherlock go?

"Don't move out. Give it time. See if what you think you want is even worth it; after all, have you even spoken to John this past month? – No, I didn't think you had. He's been too upset, hasn't he? And you've neglected to try and explain yourself, thinking a clean break to be best. So your summer romance isn't worth it, after all, I imagine. Wait two days, and once you are in your uniform again for a week, you will see what I mean," Mycroft says at last before turning away. He has business to attend; like finishing packing again for his last year of University.

Sherlock has lost the sunny feeling of having a plan and a way out. He deflates and retreats to the haven of his bedroom, picking up his violin and plucking the strings, but not bothering with his bow; he doesn't feel like playing, or really thinking; for a moment, he simply wants to _be._

#

Sherlock walks down the sidewalk toward school, hand on the strap of his messenger bag over one shoulder, eyes fixed on his feet (which should make anyone who knows him question how he is feeling, because one of the annoying things about Sherlock Holmes, his peers know, is the fact that he always looks up and directly at the eyes of everyone he passes, daring them, judging them, feeling arrogant of himself). He glances up and pauses when he reaches John's front door. John isn't emerging at his normal time.

Sherlock looks ahead, and sure enough, John is already down to the curb at the end of the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street.

Sherlock's knees jerk forward, urging him to sprint to make it to John's side before morning traffic separates them further. His throat constricts, choking back John's name from being shouted at the sky, the air of the single syllable caught in his lungs.

Sherlock slows his pace and watches John cross the street, head down, bookbag bobbing on his back, his legs rushing toward their destination. A back that Sherlock held, touched, loved. Legs that Sherlock felt wrapped around him. He swallows. He knows John's body, now, has it locked in his memory, and he feels a conflicting double-stab of pain and arousal veer into his gut. He wills both away and trudges onward.

#

In class, John is quiet. Sherlock takes a seat away from the blond, out of respect. He sighs heavily, ensures his seat is located somewhere behind John and out of John's peripheral vision, and stares. He dedicates a decent portion of his class time of three separate classes to sketches of John's ear, hairline, nape, uniform shirt collar, shoulders, and, sometimes, his cheek and part of his nose. He is not a great artist – he plays the violin better than he draws – and he can't recreate from memory worth shit, but he does well enough while looking at something to copy it to at least recognizably resemble the original.

He tucks his drawings away into the back of a folder of scrap paper and buries it in his bag. He misses John so much. He didn't think it would be this bad, but it's horrendous. He feels almost sick at the loss of friendship.

But he should have known, shouldn't he have? He should have known that sex can strengthen or ruin a relationship, because it can lead to feelings that can induce heartbreak if said feelings are dashed, and they were.

During lunch hour, Sherlock makes his way over to John and sits beside him. John spares him a glance before seeming to flush with shame. "What are you doing?"

"Eating with you," Sherlock replies quietly. "Like we always do."

"It's not like that anymore, Sherlock," John replies coldly, standing from his seat. "Please, just leave me be. Haven't you said enough?" and he walks away, just like that.

Sherlock throws out the rest of what little food he had with him.

#

After two weeks of this, Sherlock grows numb, uncaring. He doesn't do his homework. He does volunteer to answer the teachers' questions, nor correct the teachers when they are wrong. He goes through the motions, lost over the fact that Mycroft had been correct. He would lash out over it, but what's the point anymore?

"Hey, Freak," a tall, thin girl with braids in her hair grins as she comes up to him. She has a few boys in tow, and one other girl.

"Hello, Donovan and Company," Sherlock greets sarcastically, the snarl on his face like that of an abused dog waiting to strike. "And what insults, pray tell, do you have in store for me today?"

"Oh, nothing; we just noticed that your Hobbit boyfriend did away with you. You're all alone now, aren't you? Poor Freak; it was only a matter of time before he came to his senses and realized you're a psychopath and nobody likes you," Sally sneers, and beside her, Anderson has his arm around her waist and is laughing along with the drones behind them.

"Witty and charming as always, I see," Sherlock's defense mechanism kicks in without him having to even think about it. "No wonder everyone prefers the queen B – and I am shortening the word 'bitch' to a single letter, not at all inferring you are remotely worthy of the title of 'bee' like the insect, let alone the full title of 'bitch,' since you put female dogs to shame as well – to me. They like to back the side of the wicked to spare them Queenie's wrath. It's classic dictatorship in a teenage school setting. How predictably teenage-film-cliché of you, Sally. You ought to be proud."

She scowls and from behind her, a beefier boy – her bodyguard, no doubt, one she clearly goads with sexual favors behind her boyfriend's back – steps around to the front, pounding a fist into his hand. "What did you say, punk?"

"Ooh, classic name-calling and threatening, like a true bully. Tell me, did you learn that from a coming-of-age film from the 1980s, or merely a cartoon, because you are too much of a simpleton for anything else?" Sherlock spews fluidly, it second nature to choose words over violence… most of the time. And when it comes to the violence, Sherlock is able to hold his own and take down up to two men at once, easy. Three or four might be a challenge, as presented here, if it comes to that, but he will simply have to play a bit dirty and aim for ribs, kidneys, and eyes to protect himself. It won't be too hard, and he'll be sure none of his wounds on them are permanent disabilities.

"Say that again, and I'll clobber ya, yeah!" the beefy boy growls, and snaps his head to spit at Sherlock's face.

"Oh, now you've plain humiliated me," Sherlock says calmly as he wipes the offending saliva from his cheek with his hand, wiping it on the boy's lapel of his uniform. The beefy boy roars and throws a punch, which Sherlock doges. "You will have to do better than that, I'm afraid."

"Get him, all you lot!" commands the queen, and her minions soon follow, even the girl in their group. Anderson holds her and laughs with her as five people charge Sherlock.

He aims well, and lands most of his strikes, but they outweigh him a great deal, and have far too many limbs. They grab hold of his arms and legs and pin him between bodies, and then it's just one punch and kick after another into his balls, his stomach, and his chin.

Sherlock stops struggling. He knows when he's been beaten in a battle. He hags his head and takes the blows, hoping that, if he doesn't make a sound, they will lose interest.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing to that poor kid?" comes a heroic savior's voice, and Sherlock is barely aware of how familiar it sounds. "I've called a prefect and a professor! You'll get yours, all of you! I gave _names._"

Sherlock is dropped to the floor. He hears scrambling shoes on pavement and collective voices.

"Shit, shit! _Scram_!"

"Hey, it's _you_! I thought you left him?"

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_… My ma is gonna kill me!"

"Left who –?" the voice starts, but then the bodies have made their escapes, and Sherlock is left, bruised and bleeding, on the ground. He's fortunate they stopped when they did, or he might have broken something. From what he can tell, he will be healed in two weeks' time, good as new. "Oh, God. _Sherlock_."

He's heard that phrase before, spoken in passion, not fear. It's John. Oh, Christ, it's John. Of course it is; he the one of the few morally sound teenagers of their grade who would stop a gang of bullies using a fellow student as a punching bag. Of course. He's the only one brave enough to go to authorities and then step in himself. Good, old, reliable John Watson…

"John," Sherlock croaks, sorely rolling onto his back. John is by his side and picking him up.

"Dammit, Sherlock…" John whispers, tears evident in his tone. Sherlock feels too much like ground meat to open his eyes to look. He struggles to even remain conscious, but John is solid and warm beside him, and that's enough to tether him to consciousness. "All this because they noticed you were alone, that I wasn't there to protect you…" He sounds regretful, woeful, like he's blaming himself.

Sherlock leans into John more, disoriented, but gaining clarity in degrees. "It's not your fault. Don't give me that tone. You had nothing to do with this."

"No, you know, maybe I didn't. Maybe it's all because you pushed me away," John retorts, but not as severely as he could have, should have. He instead sounds even more woeful, and it makes Sherlock's chest ache with something other than the blows dealt to it.

"I never wanted to, John. You know that," he murmurs quietly. "I suppose it's no loss, now, to tell you that it was Mycroft's doing."

John stops short on his way to the nurse's office with a cold feeling creeping up on him. "…Your brother?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. He spits out a wad of bloody saliva, his mouth tasting of copper and little else. "I thought I would have rid myself of the traces, but Mycroft knew the night I came back that I had slept with you. And he disapproved greatly, claiming it was to shield me from my father and the resentment my family will hold if they discover I could ruin their precious _reputation_," he grumbles. "But I think he just doesn't want me to embarrass him, and he thinks it's just so incredibly wrong for teenagers under the age of eighteen to have sex with one another, even if it's only one partner, one time. It's ridiculous, and I have been fighting all this while to find a way to get around it, but he shoots down every solution I come up with."

John is very quiet. He starts walking again. Then, in a small voice, he replies, "I thought a lot of things. That maybe you used me and meant to throw me out afterward. Or that you were scared of commitment or something, or that you thought I loved you, and you didn't feel the same, and didn't want to string me along, since we're friends…" He shakes his head. "Or that you somehow didn't like it. I don't know what I thought. But I took it too personally; I forgot that your family isn't as easy to fool as mine, and that yours cares about more a reputation than mine does."

Sherlock lifts his head before they enter the infirmary. The nurse is still in, and she sees them at the door and rushes over. "We'll talk about this more later," he murmurs.

The nurse ushers them in, asks all the proper questions, and then goes about tending to Sherlock's injuries. John stands by him all the while, a serene look on his face mingled with his general concern. It's a good sign, if anything.

#

"Come home with me," John urges as soon as the nurse releases them and has called and left a message for Sherlock's parents. "My mother made cookies yesterday."

"That's kind of you, but –"

"And you said we would talk," John adds as a reminder. "You can't neglect the fact that we're not finished talking about…" He shifts foot to foot, hesitating, "About _us_."

Sherlock sighs, disposable ice pack on his jaw, but he nods. "Very well."

They keep up a casual pace the entire way back to John's house. Once inside, Mrs. Watson jumps out of her skin and starts hemming and hawing over Sherlock and how he always gets into fights and she really ought to give the school a piece of her mind for not keeping a better eye on their students after-hours, and how she hopes John got all the names and that those rotten kids pay for what they have done, ganging up on a poor boy like Sherlock.

Sherlock suffers through being coddled, but he secretly enjoys it, John knows, since Sherlock's own family hardly pays him any mind, let alone shows any sort of affection, nor offers any comfort. Support and praise occur when Sherlock excels in something, but outside of that brief acknowledgement, he might as well not exist.

"Here, you have dinner with us tonight, all right?" Mrs. Watson insists with a firm tone and easy smile. "You know we love you, Sherlock, dear, and hate thinking of you going home to an empty house so much of the time after events like this."

"I don't mind. My parents live full lives; who am I to try and control them to suit my convenience?" Sherlock shrugs. He dares to look at John before saying to the doting woman, "And it's fine, really, because I have John and your hospitality."

"See? Now, how can anyone hurt a sweet boy like you?" Mrs. Watson laments as she moves forward and brings Sherlock to her bosom. He blushes and makes a protesting noise, and she chuckles and releases him. "Sometimes I think you're just a dear at heart, but are mistaken for all the wrong things because you have to defend yourself with harshness."

"That might be true, but I doubt it. I am callous by nature and I know it," Sherlock replies in a near-mumble. "You only think I'm polite because I make sure I am when I am around you. With everyone else, I could care less."

"I feel special, then," Mrs. Watson smiles. She touches Sherlock's shoulder as she passes him to take a roast out of the oven. "When my husband comes home, we can eat. So don't you boys go sneaking any food; I know you're almost grown men and awfully hungry, but it's no time to wait at all!"

"Yes, Mum," John replies with a roll of his eyes. He nudges Sherlock. "Come on, let's go to the bathroom and get you fresh bandages. We can play a game in my room or something until suppertime."

Sherlock's stomach rolls and he nods, rising to his feet. He follows John upstairs, and sits on the closed lid of the toilet, shivering without his shirt, as John reaches into the medicine cabinet and finds what he's looking for.

He removes bloodied band-aids and dabs at Sherlock's bruises and where his teeth or their fists broke skin along Sherlock's mouth and chest.

His touches are light, cautious, clinical. But after Sherlock is all freshly patched up, hand on his shirt to bring it closer and over his head, John stops him with a hand on Sherlock's forearm.

They look at each other, and then Sherlock isn't sure who leans in first, but in a matter of milliseconds, their lips meet and John fits his mouth against Sherlock's gently working Sherlock's lips with the most careful of kisses, his warm hands resting first on Sherlock's shoulders, then skimming his collarbones and running softly down the front of Sherlock's sore torso.

Sherlock winces into the kiss, but with a subtle enough twitch that John doesn't stop, which is preferred, really, because there are endorphins going off in Sherlock's head with each extended second of their kissing that washes the pain away.

Sherlock loves the feeling of John's fine hair in his fingers. He grips John's nape – the nape he stared at for a week, drawing and only wishing he could touch again – and rubs his thumb at the base of John's scalp with one hand, his other tugging lightly at John's crown. He opens his mouth and lets John deepen the kiss, and oh, he's missed this so much, because having it once is not nearly sufficient.

"How are you feeling?" John asks as they part for air.

"Adequate. Could use a bit more medical attention, I think," Sherlock murmurs seductively, leaving John's hair with one hand as he brings one of John's hands off from his waist and places it on his thigh.

John bites his bottom lip. "Er… not here. The door's still open, for Christ's sake. Harry could walk by and see us any second." He stands, helps Sherlock into his shirt. He takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him to his bedroom. He turns on music to sound normal, but the second the door is closed (and locked), John turns and sits and has Sherlock leaning over him in his lap on the bed, and their mouths are connected again.

"I'm sorry I put you through all that. Fuck my brother; I told him I would move out, and I will, if it means preserving what we have," Sherlock mumbles against the fabric of John's uniform. He tears it away and John helps him back out of his shirt, undoing the buttons in haste and breathing in tandem with the beat of Sherlock's heart.

"Don't move out before you go to University. Wait until you've graduated and are in a dorm, secured somewhere, and still living off of mostly your parents' money. Until then, we'll either have to be more careful, or not have sex, and just kiss," John replies.

"You can't honestly tell me you don't want to have sex," Sherlock frowns as he rocks in John's lap and runs his hands over John's skin, relishing the feel of it. "Even now, all I can think about is having you in my mouth."

"God, Sherlock, don't _say_ things like that," John groans with his lips at Sherlock's throat. "Unable to just walk up to you and touch you nearly killed me, and you coming to me on the first day like nothing happened was torture. And this is just as bad, because what are we _doing_?" the aspiring army doctor pleads.

"I can't resist you, John, try as I might," Sherlock whispers. "You are the only person who has ever mattered to me. I can't believe I let Mycroft get to me for as long as he had. I should have come into your room that night and fucked you again, just to spite him."

John suppresses a moan by biting down on Sherlock's clavicle, his tongue swiping over the area, sucking lightly. Sherlock bucks his hips and whines greedily, his hands shaking with adrenaline as he presses closer, chest aching from the fight but him not caring, because he needs to get closer, grip tighter, kiss John frantically down the back of his neck, over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, we can't, even quickly… My dad will be home, and we'll have to go down to dinner, and we can't look like a mess –" John tries and fails to rationalize as he lies back on the mattress and lets Sherlock do as he pleases, rolling John onto his stomach and kissing down John's spine between his broad shoulders, hands stroking John's sides as he straddles John's arse.

"We won't reach orgasm or perspire. I just want to feel you right now," Sherlock whispers behind the shell of John's ear. "I missed having you around, and I want nothing more than to show you how much that one time meant to me, in spite of what transpired afterward."

"I shouldn't forgive you so easily for that." John sighs into his sheets. "I should still be angry, but I can't be. Sherlock, you _don't know_. I can't be angry, because I –"

Sherlock turns John onto his side and stoops down to kiss him silent. He isn't naïve; he can piece together what John had been about to say next: _Because I love you._ Sherlock can't hear that right now; they're too young to be in love, and Sherlock isn't cut out for such a profound emotion. It makes him feel pathetic and idiotic and frighteningly blissful to imagine himself in love with John.

They rearrange themselves on John's bed to lie facing one another on their sides, arms around each other, foreheads scant centimeters apart. Sherlock feels safe like this; also absurdly normal, weird is a bit unnerving, because he isn't meant to be normal, to have a normal relationship with someone, but then, John has always been the exception.

"What are we, Sherlock?" John questions quietly. "Friends with benefits?"

"Perhaps not. It might be best to resume our old relationship until we graduate, not picking up our newfound sexual one until we are older, and I won't have Mycroft breathing down my neck," the dark-haired teen suggests.

John considers this for a moment. "Hmm, I guess we should, yeah? I could be okay with that if we at least were a little more affectionate is private sometimes, I dunno. If I could hug you, or kiss you a little, that would be nice. We wouldn't have to have full-on snog-fests, much as I'd want to, but I could do without if it meant we weren't like we were for the past few weeks, and most of the summer. I hated that; I wanted to scream. You've been on holidays with your family before, and we've had spats where I wouldn't talk to you for a few hours or a day, until I cooled down, but we've never been apart for that long on bad terms before. It was awful."

"I know what you mean," Sherlock agrees mildly. "And it won't happen again, I promise you. I will see you off to military training come next autumn, and before you leave, we'll be eighteen, I should be settling into my dormitory, and Mycroft can't argue if you spend the night before you go."

John smiles. "I would like that." He sits up and finds a shirt and sweater to put on to go down to dinner in, and Sherlock gets back into his shirt. "That has promise."

"I should hope so. Rarely do my ideas go awry," Sherlock remarks with a slight smirk. He presses a kiss to John's temple before he stands from the bed and straightens himself in John's mirror. His face clouds. "I hate the idea of having to say goodbye when it comes time for you to officially serve, however."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," John dismisses with a shrug as he brushes where his hair sticks up from Sherlock's hands running through it. "Who knows? If all goes well, my contract with the army will expire before I even have to leave the British Isles."

"Let us hope so," Sherlock sighs, and then they give one another an once-over, checking for any sighs. Deeming themselves presentable, they head downstairs just as Mrs. Watson calls up to them (and Harriet) that it's time to eat.

###


	4. Time Is Relative

**A/N: Final chapter. C:**

**Thought I would clear up some misconceptions more than one person had by putting the beginning line/scene. Also, I wanted fluff. X3  
**

* * *

"So, your brother isn't morally compromised anymore, now that we're 'officially' adults in his eyes?" John questions with a healthy dose of humor as he slips his hand into Sherlock's and turns his head to murmur into his ear at Sherlock's eighteenth birthday.

It was never a matter of legality – the age of consent is, after all, sixteen – but to Mycroft, it's a deed done between responsible, matured, know-what-they-are-doing-and-have-reason-behind-it adults, preferably ones about to be wed, since Mycroft is traditional in that regard.

It was ridiculous, really, and now that it's over, John fully intends to end their friendship-only status in favor of something more catering to his true wishes, like giving Sherlock the bonus gift of birthday sex.

"Are you going where I think you are headed in saying that?" Sherlock smirks as he discreetly places a kiss on John's ear, seeming only to be muttering a secret of his own into it. No one at the get-together of their families (what friends does Sherlock have to invite but the Watson family?) notices or cares. They are all amiably talking amongst themselves, drinks in a majority of their hands, some of them a bit closer to being pissed than acceptable, probably.

"Well, it's not like anyone in this crowd would think of anything of it if we left to your bedroom right now. They wouldn't even see us leave, I bet. And if they came looking for us, they might just assume we're trying out your new microscope or something." And he touches the boxed item on the table in front of them. "Especially if we happen to take it up with us and disappear for a couple hours."

"Sometimes I wonder who is the true genius between us, John," Sherlock muses with a short laugh as he stands and picks up the gift, casually walking out of the living room, winding between mingling adults. John follows suit, and with each step he takes up the stairs, the noise of music and laughter of the little party quiets down to a dim hum, particularly as Sherlock closes his bedroom door behind John.

"Mm. Almost forgot what your room looked like; I rarely come over to your house. You like staying at mine too much," John observes as he plops down onto Sherlock's bed – larger than John's, and with a nicer mattress; damn rich folk – and peers up at the ceiling. He drapes his arms over his head and has his legs spread just a bit.

Sherlock crawls onto the bed and lies down next to John, resting his own arms at his sides. He follows the pattern of his textured ceiling with his eyes. "I am trying to grasp your departure. Is it really coming so soon?"

John sighs through his nose and peers over at Sherlock, admiring his profile for a moment before Sherlock turns his head to lock gazes with the blond beside him. John lowers a hand sifts it through Sherlock's hair, stroking back dark curls from his face. "It is, but try not to think about it, okay? And remember to look for me when I return. You said you would."

"And I intend to keep that promise. But John," Sherlock contradicts evenly as he props himself up on one elbow. He feels John's hand fall from his hair, and he leans over John to peer down at him properly. "Covetously, I want to keep you for myself. I know it is your goal to be a doctor in the army, and that is all very noble and good, but why can't you stay here and go to school with me, and be a traditional doctor?"

"Where is the excitement in that? And anyway, the troops need more doctors. I'll be out again before you know it, and right now, it's our time to do what we want; so won't you kiss me?" he says with a smile.

Sherlock sighs but returns the smile minutely, dipping his head to steal John's tongue into his mouth, his fingers already working deftly under John's jumper.

#

The day John goes off to training is the day Sherlock's life changes for the first real time, apart from the first night he slept with his best friend.

It changes in a way that brings him to the revelation that John has been the most singularly steadfast, placating thing in his life. The one person who has supported him the most, loved him the most, and put up with him the most. The one person he sees, now, he never wants to lose, or be without, or forfeit to something as petty as a bad breakup or another love interest or something of the sort. And certainly not to death; if John were to die, so would Sherlock.

And he does like to be dramatic, but he means it. He may be a bit self-destructive anyhow, but it might go a step too far if John is later sent over land and sea to a Middle Eastern country and returns in a body bag. The horror of thinking of not having John is shockingly painful.

It gives Sherlock pause and makes him cringe, because where would he be without John to aid him in his future career as a detective? Where would he be without John to curl up to in bed each night in a flat they will find together and live in humbly, but without a boring moment between them? Where would he be at all without that one constant in his life to keep his addictive behavior at bay – He tried smoking when he was fourteen, and John stopped him; he tried drugs when he was fifteen, and John put an end to it as well – and without the one person to prevent him from being disastrously alone?

Sherlock doesn't care who sees it; he grips both of John's hands and presses a kiss to John's knuckles and keeps his lips there as he closes his eyes and mutters, "Don't let them change you too much, and when it comes time for you to serve, try to keep at least a kilometer's distance from any conflict, you hear me?"

John huffs a laugh and pries his fingers from Sherlock's. "It won't be that bad. Everyone has these horrific notions of the military, but it's not bad, it really isn't. Even in America the drill sergeants aren't as bad as they make them out to be in film, so you don't have anything to worry about. I'll serve Queen and Country and be back soon. I keep telling you that; when will you believe me?"

"When I see it. When you return once and for all and I can rest easy."

"Try to focus on your life and not mine, all right, Sherlock?" John tells him as he plants a swift kiss on Sherlock's forehead, brushing back his fringe and ignoring a blemish or two hidden beneath. "Go to university. Study criminology and forensic science and chemistry and all those things you love. And then find yourself a nice flat, but not too pricey, and start gaining allies at Scotland Yard so they let you in on their cases. And when I'm back in London again, you better come find me, because I don't think a few years apart with scant holidays intermitted will change my feelings for you. Friends for life and all that; you're stuck with me."

"Agreed," Sherlock whispers. He looks up at John and wants a million things – to crush John's body to his; to suck his fingers into his mouth after another kiss to them; to lock their lips together; to turn John around and bury himself in John's hair, his breath at John's neck; to run his hands down John's denim-covered thighs; to actually bring himself to say goodbye – but opts to dismiss each and every fleeting want, banishing them to the far reaches of his mind to save for later, when he will need the imagery most. He shakes John's hand and gives him a pat on the back with the other. "See you."

John looks torn as he pulls away. "Yeah. See you." He bites his lip. "I –" he stops short, gathers himself up with a trembling breath, and his father is there, now, and he can hear John if he says it, but he has been meaning to say it for the longest time, maybe even years before they changed their relationship, because it's always been _true, _even if it hasn't always been romantic. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock feels as though someone has knocked the wind from his lungs. His chest coils into a knot and he can't seem to swallow correctly. He opens his mouth, but no words come. He can't even say it back to John, much as he wants to. He nods instead.

John nods, hopefully not put-off, and turns away, his hand slipping out of Sherlock's grasp from where they forgot to drop hands after shaking them goodbye. And then Mr. Watson sends them both a questioning look before shrugging it off and following his son into the cab that will take them all the way to base camp, where the new recruits are managed. Sherlock studied the route on the computer; he knows the way. He knows where to go and how to evade cameras and guards and the like if he so wishes to break in and see John again on short notice.

But he won't follow through. He only likes the idea that he _could; _it's the only comfort he will need for the next few years.

#

He sees John at Christmas a few times, but not otherwise. They send texts and e-mails at least three days a week every other week, when they get bored of their lives and want to find each other again to get lost in their own world for a while. Sometimes they use webcams or the cameras on their phones, but sometimes it's enough to just see the other type.

John is very busy. Busier than Sherlock, even with all of Sherlock's papers and projects assigned by his professors. John is on a tight regimen, however, and that is mainly why. He is kept busy on purpose, meant to be constantly on a task, because he is being taught that everything in the army is a giant list of tasks, because life is essentially a continual loop of mandatory tasks in order to survive.

Sherlock doesn't like it. But he has no say in how things are run, and he can't influence the right people to change things, even if Mycroft now has a position in the British government, because it's John choice as to what he wants to do for a living. It might be inconvenient and Sherlock might pout and sulk over it, but it isn't within in power. It just isn't.

#

They haven't contacted one another for a while now.

It began as a several missed days, then a few missed weeks, and then a couple months. Part of the reason is that John always contacts Sherlock first. And part of the reason is because Sherlock is afraid that this means they are drifting apart, and afraid that maybe they should drift, because the pair of them were being delusional in thinking nothing would change.

Finally, after the third month's marker, Sherlock picks up his phone and dials. He never calls; he prefers to text, or speak in person (Skype coming close). It rings four times, then John picks up, sounding breathless – he struggled to find his phone – and surprised. "Sherlock, hey."

"Hello," Sherlock mutters into his mobile. "Are we still friends?"

"What? Sorry, it's hard to hear you; interference," John replies, and there is a bit of static on his end.

"I wondered if we are still friends," Sherlock repeats tightly, his voice loud and clear.

There is no pause. "Yeah, of course we are! I know we haven't talked in bit, but I think about you. You don't know how much."

"…Alright. Just checking," Sherlock replies. He hangs up; if he continues to talk, he might do something absurdly out of his range and frankly quite insane; like weep into the receiver and confess that he started using again, and smokes sometimes, and had to retake a class because he failed it because he didn't do any of the work because it was all very medical and reminded him too much of John.

#

Sherlock sobers up from what he swears is his last high for a long while, and before the hours being him to his knees from withdrawal, he makes it his mission to look up the acting detective inspector at Scotland Yard and introduce himself.

The man's name is Lestrade – Sherlock doesn't bother with a first name, seeing as how he knows he won't use it – and he has hair that will be solidly silver by the time he reaches forty, and is older than Sherlock by a few years, perhaps roughly Mycroft's age, give or take a year or so.

Lestrade finds Sherlock bewildering, holier-than-thou, and a bit of a nutter, but he respects Sherlock's intelligence, and that shows promise for them yet. Who knows? After a few cases and years spent working on the same side, they might get on famously. Sherlock has a feeling that he has found his ally on the force that will give him work; in fact, he's sure of it.

#

John is twenty-seven when he reaches captain level and is a full-fledge doctor with a degree and years of training under his belt.

He comes to Sherlock – still twenty-six, still without a steady income or occupation, but at least with a place of his own – with news that make Sherlock's knees go weak.

"They're shipping me out in a week to serve in Afghanistan! Can you believe it?" John brags. "And as a captain, no less! I've hardly done anything and they already made me a senior medical officer because I am so good at what I do, and helped save the life of a colonel that came in, wounded from where he was stationed, and I recommended a procedure – and _performed _it! – that the head surgeon didn't feel confident in. It's amazing, Sherlock; I'm being recognized already, and trusted to go out with the next set of troops to defend my country. You've no idea how this makes me feel."

And he's grinning so much that it takes all of Sherlock's effort not to pop John's bubble and drag him back down to Earth with biting sarcasm and the scathing remarks he wishes to make about the government and John's false idealisms about what war in Afghanistan is like right now and on and on and on. He has to physically bite his tongue to keep from speaking.

Instead, Sherlock gives a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and in his excitement, John fails to notice the difference between one of Sherlock's real smiles and this false one.

"That's… great, John," Sherlock responds with no tone at all. "I am pleased you are where you want to be."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says, and Sherlock feels a cold stone in his gut, one born of guilt, because John looks so genuinely appeased while Sherlock is lying through his teeth.

He hugs Sherlock tightly, turning his head and lifting off his heels to kiss Sherlock's temple. John holds their bodies together like that for a while, long enough that Sherlock finally returns the embrace with his hands clasped around John's back. It doesn't take much time before Sherlock grows desperate and sinks into John's shorter body, his hand fisting in John's hair and his nose smooshed against John's shoulder and his other hand on John's lower back clenching the fabric of John's military uniform until it wrinkles sharply all around his hand.

"They taught you how to use a gun, didn't they? Even though you're a doctor?"

"Of course. I'm a soldier, too, not just a doctor. I have to be able to hold my own and treat in the middle of the field."

"Then you need to swear to me you will use it. Don't hesitate just because you are a good man and a doctor, John; kill anyone who means you harm," Sherlock implores as he leans away to look John in the eyes. "I know you are already the type who is willing to shoot for the sake of others; your men, for example. But swear that you will shoot for yourself as well."

John blinks. He nods curtly. "I… I will. I swear, Sherlock."

"…Good."

#

Sherlock gets a call one evening, not more than five months after settling into a new flat. It's from Mrs. Watson.

"John's in London, if you don't know; he was injured, and sent home. He was shot in the shoulder, thankfully; nothing serious. He's looking for work, now, I reckon. You two used to be friends, so I thought you might find him and help him readjust to civilian life again? He has a shrink, you know, to help cope. She's a nice woman named Ella, but he needs a friend. You don't come by anymore, even to pop in for tea, so I hope this isn't too forward –"

"Please, Mum," Sherlock says with a smile, purposely calling her 'mum' to give her a kick of nostalgia when he was a mere child and would mimic John ("Mum, can we please have some ice cream?" "Yeah, Mum, can we? John says you have our favorite!") in calling her so. He can hear her small exhale of relief that he still feels close to her, enough to be friendly. "Naturally, I was planning on doing so as soon as I discovered he was in town. It might take me approximately a week to contact him, however; he's changed his mobile number a while back, and I have a case going at the moment. But as soon as I find him, you'll know, I suspect."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Watson responds warmly. "I knew I could count on you."

#

Sherlock doesn't see John again until he's thirty-four. John is scarred and limping and hardened from battle and aged, even for thirty-five, his cane part of the problem, and the bags under his eyes part of another. His hair is already graying at the temple, and his hair is no longer bright blond, but instead a darker, dirtier blond that Sherlock thinks suits John better, but still looks too old on him.

He finds John at St. Bartholomew's hospital, looking for a job now that he's permanently back from serving. He's living in a tiny bed-sit on army pension, and sporting a deadpan expression more often than his usual smile.

Sherlock goes directly up to him immediately.

"I found you," he says.

John peers up at him, gives a waning smile, and nods. "Yeah; took you long enough. I've been in London for a month now, you know."

"I was busy with an arduous case concerning a rather evasive serial killer. And I didn't get the news of your injury –" He glances at John's shoulder, not his limping leg – "From your mother until a week ago."

"Well, that explains it," John replies, and this time, his smile is sincere and lasts longer. Life is coming back to him within ten seconds of speaking to Sherlock; it fills Sherlock with a sort of joy he didn't know he was capable of feeling.

#

"You are moving in with me, aren't you?" Sherlock remarks as he treats John to lunch. "Like we discussed as teenagers."

"I dunno," John mumbles, "I haven't seen you in years. It feels like we need to get to know each other all over again. You were tracking a serial killer, you said? That means you did it, yeah? Became a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I'd imagine."

"I am," Sherlock replies with some modesty in his tone, "But I couldn't have done it if not for the push your shipment to Afghanistan gave me. Knowing you were already a captain when all I did thus far was make contact with the detective inspector of the Yard a few times drove me to do better, become a bit more aggressive, and force my way into cases where I knew the police could use my help. It worked, of course; although I still only have one ally on the force. Most of them despise me. Two of them are those loathsome kids from school, Donovan and Anderson? Although Anderson married someone else, he seems to have rekindled his school romance with Donovan and cheats with her. It's disgusting. But they are on my pal the DI's team, so I can't do a thing about it."

"Sounds complicated," John replies with a passing laugh. "I'm sure seeing me with you again will shut them up, though."

"Yes, that should do the trick. I would enjoy seeing their faces the next time there is a crime scene and I'm able to bring you with me for your medical advice," Sherlock agrees. "Which brings me back to asking: can't you move in with me to make things simpler? You can't stay in that bed-sit forever, and your pension won't last terribly much longer. I could use some help with the rent, and I think you'll like the flat I've chosen. It's right along Baker Street, next to a little sandwich shop called _Speedy's_."

"Is it? Well, I guess I could live with you, then, if it means sandwiches," John jokes, and Sherlock smiles. He finishes his meal, and Sherlock pays the bill. "All right. Show me. And if it's nice, you can expect me moved in by tomorrow."

"Excellent! Come along, then, John; I'd like you to meet our landlady, and show you what will be your room. – If you'll be needing it, that is."

"And why wouldn't –? _Oh,_" John understands as soon as he rises to his feet. He lets out a laugh, and his cheeks tint pink. "Yes, well. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I can't help it." He walks up behind John as the shorter man stops outside the tiny restaurant and waits for a cab. Sherlock murmurs right into his ear, "I haven't forgotten how it was to be with you, and even now, I still find you very attractive."

John squirms in his skin at Sherlock's frankness, his insides lighting up. Sherlock, too, has certainly grown in the best of ways since he last saw him nearly a decade ago. He already had thoughts of what their sex could be like, if they would go as far as penetration this time, and so many other things swirling in his head, half built on memory and half structured after fantasy.

"God, I've missed you," John sighs as he turns and snakes a hand behind Sherlock's back, touching the line of his trousers before quickly retreating and heading into the cab that's pulled up. "Time and distance change nothing for us, huh?"

"Nothing at all," Sherlock confirms as he slips into the taxi beside him, his hand falling immediately onto John's thigh.

#

It winds up being very true for them, how time affects them hardly at all.

Because a week later, John has moved in, and they have successfully completed their first case together.

John starts a blog for their team efforts, and clients start rolling in. John lacks his limp – it was psychosomatic, his true injuring lying in his shoulder, as a bullet wound, still healing, like Mrs. Watson said.

At the end of their second week of living together, John enters Sherlock's bedroom with all of his clothes in hand, putting them away in Sherlock's wardrobe and spare drawers in his dresser. Then, stashing his other odd items into place, John looks to Sherlock and smiles before sliding into bed with him.

They make love that night, and suddenly, both their lives are as sorted as they were as teenagers, but _better_, because now they are on their own, and know what it's like to be without the other, and are experienced enough to realize they prefer to be together; they function at their best that way.

###


End file.
